


Let me be your mirror (help you see a little clearer)

by jijal



Category: BTOB
Genre: Body Image, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25153234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jijal/pseuds/jijal
Summary: His stomach churns and turns, and Ilhoon wants nothing more than to disappear.
Relationships: Jung Ilhoon/Lee Changsub
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Let me be your mirror (help you see a little clearer)

One, two, three, four, five, six.

Ilhoon feels them when he runs his fingers over his skin, the small indentations, one, two, three, four, five, six, right across the inside of his left thigh, they’re lighter and obnoxiously visible, like initials and a heart carved into the bark of a tree by two teenagers in love. Except this is not romantic, it’s not cute, it’s nothing he wants anyone to see. His fingernails dig into his flesh in frustration, what he would give to get rid of them again, but he forces himself to take a deep breath and move on, reminds himself of all the other spots he has to cover before Changsub gets impatient, or worried, or both. Ilhoon directs his attention onto his other leg, searching every inch of his bare skin, stands up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bathtub and turns around, letting the towel slide off his body and cranes his neck to look at his butt in the mirror. His heart sinks when his eyes fall on the pattern of shimmery lines, a handful of smaller ones leading off a bigger one in the middle like a stroke of lightning in the sky. Another shallow, controlled breath leaves his lips, he grits his teeth and gets dressed.

He hadn’t thought much of them until Changsub pointed them out, half-watching television and half-dozing off on the couch a few nights ago, resting between Ilhoon’s legs, and the both of them unbothered by the mixture of the heated dialogue between the couple in the drama that was on but being only half-heartedly paid attention to and their next door neighbours’ borderline obscene moans seeping through the walls into their living room.

Changsub's hand came to a halt on Ilhoon's thigh, the random pattern he'd been drawing into his skin abandoned as he traced a line inwards, running his finger over the same spot again and again, humming to himself. Ilhoon lifted his head to have a look and asked what on earth he was doing, except it didn't sound like he was interested in the answer. Changsub knew better than to fall for it.

"You know you got stretch marks here?"

Ilhoon’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out, Changsub’s comment like a kick to his gut, robbing him of anything he could have said, any snarky remark he would have had. Instead, he made an undefinable noise in his throat in his response and let his head fall back onto the uncomfortable armrest, ending the conversation and directing his attention to the drama, or pretending to, anyway. Pretending like the thought of Changsub still lying between his legs, still _looking_ , but not saying anything didn’t make Ilhoon want to curl into himself and never have anyone, and much less Changsub, look at him again. Like he wouldn’t spend an extra five minutes in the bathroom every time to check his body for more. He’d hoped he’d get over it in a day or two, that he could forget Changsub ever brought them up and that he could go back to just _not caring_.

But a day or two turned into three, four, five. Five days Ilhoon spent working and coming home to Changsub already sprawled out on the sofa, in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of boxers, accepting Ilhoon into his arms with a small smile and a hand threading through his hair. If only that same hand didn’t have a habit of traveling down, slowly making its away from Ilhoon’s head all the way to his hips as if it had a mind of its own. If only it had stayed there, and hadn’t slipped into Ilhoon’s briefs. To his horror, Ilhoon ran out of excuses quickly; there’s only so much bullshit Changsub accepts without questioning it, and at some point Ilhoon couldn’t bring himself to mumble yet another weak excuse that would let Changsub’s hand retreat and Ilhoon doze off in peace. Instead, he moved down the length of the couch until his face was at the height of Changsub’s crotch, and he made him forget about his original plan a different way.

His hair still wet, and his confidence crushed, Ilhoon struts back into the living room, plumping down onto the couch next to Changsub, who’s quick to pull him close. Ilhoon isn’t sure why they’re still on his mind, or why they get uglier the more he looks at them, and he hopes Changsub can’t feel the way his body tenses up every time he touches him, ready to pull away if he comes too close, or wants to see more than Ilhoon can bear to show. Changsub’s lips against his barely register in Ilhoon’s brain, too many thoughts whirling around inside his head, leaving no space to enjoy their breaths mingling or the affection written in Changsub’s eyes. He hooks a finger around the hem of Ilhoon’s sweatpants and the world stops spinning, Ilhoon freezes. Slowly, and his heart beating in his throat, he takes Changsub’s hand into his, so terribly shaky, and gets him to let go again, not breaking the kiss and hoping he’ll let it slide, and pretend like nothing happened. For their sake.

But Changsub draws back, and Ilhoon’s heart drops into his gut.

“What are you doing?” Changsub asks, his brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and irritation. “You’ve been—“

“I’m just not in the mood,” Ilhoon cuts him off, having Changsub’s eyes flicker down to Ilhoon’s crotch and back up. A wave of heat climbs up his neck, and Changsub’s unreadable gaze becomes impossible to hold.

“Okay.”

A shiver runs through Ilhoon’s body, cold air hitting him where Changsub was as he sits back in his spot at the other end of the couch and returns his attention to the movie he was watching, Ilhoon watching him from the corners of his eyes. Paralysed and tongue-tied, he wants to reach out again, ask Changsub to hold him regardless, to pull him into his arms and let the warmth radiating off his body coax him into relaxation until his thoughts decide to let him rest and the words from a few nights ago are no longer etched into his mind, but he finds himself unable to do any of it, staring at his own hands, still so terribly shaky, how did Changsub not notice, fidgeting with the strings of his sweatpants. His stomach churns and turns, and Ilhoon wants nothing more than to disappear.

Changsub doesn’t even as much as flinch when Ilhoon gets up and heads into their bedroom without losing a word, wiping at his eyes before the tears building up get a chance to run down his cheeks. Maybe it’s for the better, because Changsub—Changsub wouldn’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand. Ilhoon barely does himself, and he thinks he’d rather spend a night crying over it and finally be over it by morning, than have Changsub ask any more questions and make Ilhoon feel like shit for the answers he would or wouldn’t give.

He brushes his teeth, his bloodshot eyes staring back at him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, and lies down. Curled into himself under the sheets and his back facing the door, Ilhoon listens to the distant sounds of the television running in the living room, and wonders if Changsub will still be pissed by the time he comes to bed. If he’ll have forgotten about their situation earlier and snuggle up to Ilhoon like he always does.

Ilhoon falls asleep before he can find out, waking up to sunlight creeping through the blinds and Changsub’s side of the bed empty. Ilhoon sits up with a jolt, his mind going a hundred miles an hour. Did Changsub come to bed at all?Did he come and go before Ilhoon could notice? Was he so pissed he went out to get drunk, because he’d rather drink through the night than spend it next to Ilhoon?

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. Saturday, 8:44.

It’s the weekend.

Changsub’s at the gym.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ilhoon breathes out in a mixture of relief and annoyance, and lets his head drop back onto the pillow. “Calm the fuck down.”

As if the words had more of an effect if he said them loud enough, or often enough, Ilhoon repeats them again, and again, and again, until he feels man enough to get up and take a quick shower. He’d have never anticipated a situation this small, this unimportant to fuck with him this bad, for Changsub’s comment to completely destroy his confidence from one moment to the next. Ilhoon never knew it was this fragile to begin with.

It’s almost eleven when Changsub comes home, a little later than usual; Ilhoon’s been putting off going over his report for work for almost an hour by the time he hears the door to their apartment fall shut, and it might just be the fact that he has an excuse to pause work for a few minutes, but something like relief washes over him, waiting for Changsub to appear in the doorframe.

“Hey, you,” Changsub says, his fringe pushed out of his face and a small smile pulling up the corners of his lips. He walks over and pecks Ilhoon on the cheek, and puts down a crinkly, white paper bag on the kitchen table. “You feeling better?”

“Huh?” Ilhoon looks up at him.

“Last night,” Changsub says, resting his warm hand on Ilhoon’s shoulder. “You seemed… off.”

“No, yeah, I was just,” Ilhoon breaks off into a sigh. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. “Tired, you know.”

“Okay,” Changsub says, his voice not giving away if he bought the old excuse or not. He nods in the vague direction of the table. “I got you breakfast on the way back.”

Ilhoon perks up his eyebrows in surprise, eyeing the paper bag in front of him and looking back up at Changsub in a mixture of ridicule and disbelief.

“Don’t give me that— _listen_ ,” Changsub says, a short, amused scoff escaping his lips. His hand leaves Ilhoon’s shoulder as he slowly walks towards the bedroom door. “I thought if you were still mad at me, it might help.”

He says it so nonchalantly, but his words make Ilhoon’s insides twist with guilt.

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, and he should say more — apologising is the least he can do, but as always, the words refuse to come out. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Changsub waves him off. “I’ll go shower.”

With that, he ends the conversation, leaving so much left unsaid between them on his way out of the kitchen, that Ilhoon can’t help but think it won’t be long until it all comes crashing down on them. A few more days, maybe a week of excuses, rejection and stifling, awkward silence instead of honest conversations that they should be having until Changsub will have enough. 

A few hours later, after spending the day finishing up his report and watching a movie Changsub picked out for them after dinner, almost dozing off halfway through but getting startled awake by the mercilessly loud sound effects, they get ready for bed, brushing their teeth in the small bathroom, sleepy-eyed and in silence.

Ilhoon is the first one to finish washing up, slipping under the covers, and Changsub following a few moments later. The bed dips under his weight when he lies down behind Ilhoon, his arm snaking around Ilhoon’s waist and pulling him in. He can feel Changsub’s breath hit his skin, and the calm rise and fall of his chest against his back.

A small, content sigh, a kiss to Ilhoon’s neck and Changsub’s hand slipping under Ilhoon’s T-shirt — it’s all too familiar.

“Can I make things up to you?” Changsub murmurs, seemingly oblivious to Ilhoon’s hesitation.

“It’s fine,” Ilhoon says, weakly. “You don’t have to…—”

“I want to, though.”

Ilhoon tenses up.

“Hyung, I— I don’t…—,” is all he can bring out, is all he _needs_ to say for Changsub to catch on, already drawing back and sitting up behind Ilhoon. Like a bomb, he hears him go off a second before he does.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” he asks, _demands_ , struggling to hide the frustration in his voice. “If you’re not feeling up to it, fine, but you’ve been pushing me away for almost two weeks without an explanation.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted the pastries Changsub brought him, Ilhoon thinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have acted like things were suddenly back to normal, and lead Changsub on, get his hopes up like that. It’s not fair, none of it is, really. And the situation they’re in, all the ugly feelings coming to the surface now are on him.

Ilhoon grits his teeth and forces his limbs to move; he slowly sits up, and leans back against the headboard.

“Sorry. Work’s been a lot.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Changsub asks, a razor sharp edge to his words, Ilhoon feels them graze his skin. “I can tell something’s up with you. You’re not _tired_ , you’re acting weird.”

Ilhoon has nothing to say in response, because Changsub is right, and the silence that settles between them has Ilhoon think he can hear him putting the pieces together inside his head, sorting through the last few days one by one until the moment it all _clicks_ , and he finally understands.

“Is this about what I said?” he asks. Quieter, calmer. “About your… the stretch marks?”

"No."

“Ilhoon,” Changsub groans. “I didn’t mean to make you feel self-conscious about them. They’re barely noticeable."

Ilhoon stays quiet, eyes boring into the back of his hands and his heart beating in his throat. This is all he wanted, for Changsub to _notice_ , to stop pushing, and pushing, and pushing, but it was naive to think he would let this rest without an explanation. Changsub is direct, and open, and doesn’t beat around the bush — not to make Ilhoon feel like shit, but because he cares.

“Let me see them.”

Ilhoon looks up at the change of tone to Changsub’s voice, so soft and careful, and he finds nothing but sincerity in Changsub's eyes, his features no longer distorted by anger and frustration. Ilhoon reminds himself that it’s okay for Changsub to care. He should let him care.

Letting out a heavy breath in defeat, he shifts his weight and gets out of his sweatpants, dropping them onto the floor and sitting back down on the bed despite that weird feeling inside of him that he can’t seem to shake. Changsub comes closer, and Ilhoon forces down the urge to draw back, to push him away any more than he already has, at the feeling of Changsub’s gentle hand against his skin, his curious gaze and small touches. He lets him come close enough to run a hand over his inner thigh, tracing the wobbly lines with his fingers just like he did the first night. He dips his head down and places kisses to the scarred, ugly patches of skin, and Ilhoon’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes growing wide and his ears getting unbearably hot.

“Hyung,” he whines, having found his voice. “What are you doing, _stop_.”

He pulls his legs toward his chest, close to his body, and, with his ears about to catch on fire, fishes for his pants on the floor, but Changsub is quick, quicker than Ilhoon; he bends down over the edge of the bed, grabbing the pair of sweats and throwing it to the floor somewhere behind him, and Ilhoon is forced to watch, balling his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. He knows better than to run, knows all too well Changsub would just come after him until they’ve talked through this.

“Listen,” Changsub says, making sure he has Ilhoon’s full attention. “I’m sorry I pointed them out. If I’d know they’d bother you this much…. I wouldn’t have, okay? But they don't make you ugly, or any less attractive. They’re just... just there. Like your nose. Just there. Not a big deal… alright?”

Ilhoon can’t help but snort, some of the tension that’s been building up leaving his body; the words forced past Changsub’s lips are clumsy, endearingly clumsy even, but said with the most genuine of intentions.

“Seriously, I couldn’t care less about— about any of that stuff. Stretch marks, scars, who cares. You’re fine the way you are. And I’m sorry for making you feel like you have to hide them from me. I don’t want you to think that way. Okay?” Changsub asks again, more hopeful this time, and Ilhoon gives a small nod.

“Okay,” he brings out, eventually. “I’m sorry, too.”

“No, forget it. Let’s just be done with this," Changsub waves him off, and relief washes over Ilhoon; he couldn't have asked for more.

A second later, Changsub’s arms wrap around him, pulling Ilhoon close, and, his face squished against Changsub’s shoulder, Ilhoon remembers to breathe. A big inhale, a shaky exhale as his fingers claw into the soft fabric of Changsub’s T-shirt, and he buries his face into his neck.

One, two, three, four, five, six you're beautiful's whispered into Ilhoon's ear, and he knows Changsub means every single one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be somewhat of an ilsub case study but just ended up being emotional h/c angst like most of what i write............. anyway! moving on! kudos and/or comments are as always highly appreciated, although god knows ive been slacking and this isnt anything im proud of either;; thank you for reading;; title from scars to your beautiful by alessia cara
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jungsilhoon) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/9094) | [btob fic exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/btob_fic_exchange)


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